


Challenge ficlet #3

by ninamalfoy



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, unbetaed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-19
Updated: 2010-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-10 16:23:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/101726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninamalfoy/pseuds/ninamalfoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompts: 'rejoice' and 'lucky'<br/>OTP: the Grand OTP</p>
            </blockquote>





	Challenge ficlet #3

**Author's Note:**

> First posted on LJ on December 2nd, 2006.
> 
> Not true in the least bit. I'm just borrowing their public persona to play.
> 
> Challenge ficlet for miomi_chan.

'A time to rejoice. You will be lucky as far as your new job offer is concerned. You may to take off to a peaceful place to get your sanity intact. A long time dispute gets resolved. This is the ideal time for you to build contacts and forge ahead with your plans.'

Michael snorted. Really. London, a peaceful place? But otherwise, the horoscope was eerily accurate. Dispute? If that was about Torsten - but then, he couldn't hope for any resolution there. It would be just unthinkable. Undoable. He closed the women's magazine, one of Simone's that he had taken up to do some light reading - honestly he was bored out of his mind and with Simone gone with the boys to an extended weekend at her parents', where they'd get spoiled to no end, there was no one to talk to around.

Except for his cell lying on the table, the display glittering in the sunlight. He could call someone and have a good chat.

But he knew whose number he'd end up choosing and then his thumb'd hover over the 'call' button and in the end he'd choose the 'exit' button instead, closing his eyes. Do not give in. Not again.

He couldn't afford it. But it's just as if you tell someone to not think about a pink elephant - what will they invariably think about? So, images of Torsten rose unbidden in Michael's mind. Torsten in his hip hop get-up (he claimed it was just really comfortable and looked cool as Michael made some amused 'gangsta' comments), the tattooed arms flexing and the head nodding along to the beat of the music, the eyes closed with a slight smile playing on his lips. Which made Michael want to steal it with a kiss. Or Torsten, sweatyexhausted after a match, strands of his long hair sticking to his cheeks and his neck, the black hair band scrunched up in his hand, the jersey sticking to him in all appropriate (and some inappropriate) places. Michael loved to watch Torsten undress after a match, his eyes half-lidded so that no one would catch onto the fact that he was checking Torsten out, following the strong lines and curves of his body with avid fascination, and sometimes he had to close his eyes.

Just as he's doing now, leaning back into the couch. Unconsciously adjusting himself by shifting a bit, he runs a hand through his hair. He would look ridiculous with Torsten's long hair, but it fit his - well, okay. His friend. His _lover_, something in his mind sneers.

Michael sighs. That Torsten had been, too. It had been an endless source of amazement to Michael - that this man would want him with the same passion, meeting Michael's challenges again and again, never backing down but diving headfirst into it. Torsten was as ruthless and accommodating as he was on the pitch, always with the same intent in mind. Having Michael's back. And now Michael has to chuckle slightly, the faint echo reverberating in the air, of how fitting this saying was.

They have ended it for now. It was Michael who made the suggestion after their last night together, tracing Torsten's shoulder tattoo. And he had felt Torsten stiffen, averting his eyes and he planted a kiss on the shoulder. Asking for something. Forgiveness? Compassion? Michael doesn't know, but when Torsten had turned to him and said, "Another time, and then - okay."

Michael had shaken his head. Another time might be too dangerous. It would end up with another, then another, and yet another, and where might that end? He couldn't afford to lose control here. He just couldn't.

And so he had slid out of bed, Torsten's hand releasing their grip on his hip only reluctantly. When he was at the door, fully clothed, he had finally turned around and faced Torsten, who was lying there with his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes on Micha.

"Good luck, Micha." Said with a trace of bitterness, but there was a wry smile tucked away in the one corner of his mouth and Michael nodded. "Same to you, too." He fought down the urge to cross the few metres to the bed and - no, and then he was outside, leaning against the door. Breathing heavily.

He ached. And not just in the usual places, but also somewhere more deep.

He had to think of something that Jens had quoted once.

"If you can't fix it, you've got to stand it."

So he has to. And all that time, he has stood it. And he will continue to. But that ache has never really dissipated. It flared up when he met Torsten at the national squad, shaking his hand, hugging him - they were still friends, that one he wouldn't lose, ever. And when he heard Torsten's voice, talking to Schweini or Basti, he tried to not listen too obviously. Or when Torsten walked past him - then he tried to stay put and not turn after the fellow midfielder.

It was difficult, but he could do it. And when he started talking with Chelsea, it was with a sense of relief. Finally. No more Bayern, where Schweini or Olli might mention Torsten in passing, or tell Micha that Torsten said good luck, or when he'd look at the number 8 jogging onto the pitch and had for a fleeting moment the impression that it was Torsten right there, but then, Torsten's hair wasn't as sleek or black as Ali's.

Too many memories. Too many occasions for that ache to make itself known, when otherwise it was just a dull throbbing, something Michael could ignore. When he tried.

In London, he can start anew. He might still meet Torsten at the national squad or when they'd play each other for the European tournaments, but otherwise there'd be no Bundesliga matches anymore. And there wouldn't be that many people who also knew Torsten and might talk to Michael about him. There were Jens and Robert, but he wouldn't be seeing them that often, anyway.

But he just can't forget Torsten. The pink elephant, remember? Michael stands up, bouncing to and fro on his heels. He's jittery, and there's nothing in here to distract him enough. He has already went through all his belongings, deciding what to take and what not. And Simone's going to pack their clothes, anyway. Everything's prepared and cared for - except for him.

And it's at that moment that the cell rings.

Michael sighs as he sees 'Frings, Torsten'. But maybe that's what he needs, after all.

"Hey, Torsten," he says, quietly.

"Micha."

He can hear Torsten's breathing. "How are you?" Michael asks.

"Fine, fine. But - Micha?"

"I'm listening," he replies. They haven't called each other since then - and before then, their calls mostly concerning when to meet up for some hours undisturbed.

"You know what I asked for last time."

Michael closes his eyes. He knows. How could he not? Sometimes, at his most desperate, he thinks about what would've been if he'd acquiesced to Torsten's demand. If he had - "I know."

"I still want it." Quiet, assured. Torsten did always know what he wanted. And he never backed down.

Michael sighs. He can't lie. Not to Torsten. "Yes."

"I'm standing in front of your door."

And this is how their last time happens, how Michael leads Torsten to his bed room. How they end up undressing each other, careful and slow. Michael pays homage to each of Torsten's tattoos, following their lines with his fingers and his lips, his tongue sneaking out to trace them, and Torsten's delving his fingers into Michael's locks, gripping them almost painfully, and then their mouths clash, hungrily, and what they don't want to say with words, they say with touches, bites, thrusts, strokes. And when they are joined - finally - Michael wants nothing more than to stay like this, breathing hard, his skin sweatyslick, Torsten's blunt nails digging into his sides.

Later on, when he's showering, the bed linens already in the washing machine, he knows that Torsten's kisses will burn forever on his skin, etched in invisible lines. That he'll always hear Torsten's words, low and choked, "I wish you all the best, Micha," just before he disappeared out of the room, head hanging low.

At the same time, though, he knows that the ache will lay low for a while. Maybe there are some grains of truth in the 'fight like with like' cure. Just maybe.


End file.
